I, Anonymous

Bon Appétit, Edward Shithands

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I apologize if our handshake at Tuesday’s “working lunch” came off as a bit awkward. The moment you extended your right hand, I instantly recalled the dozens of times I’ve watched you march directly from the second-stall toilet to the bathroom exit door. If you don’t want to wash your hands, that’s fine. I don’t expect you to scrub your shit-covered fingers more than Howard Hughes. However, perhaps you could be a little more courteous when it comes to covering your coworkers with your filth.

Think of it this way. When you have morning breath, you don't try to make out with your girlfriend. When you step in dog poop, you don't wipe it off on your mother's Persian rug. And when you put your hand against your butthole, you shouldn't rub it on your coworkers.

So, as I sat in the hour-long meeting eating finger foods elegantly topped with fecal matter, I feverishly plotted my revenge. The following day after everyone had left the office, I slowly slid your computer mouse down the crack of my ass. Bon appétit, Edward Shithands!